The Song of Now
by Cry of the Wilds
Summary: This story is on hiatus for rewriting for a yet-to-be-determined period of time.
1. Goodbye (Prologue)

A/N: I do not own right to any of Blizzard's characters or plot. Apologies to Suzanne Collins/Taylor Swift for hijacking the lyrics to 'Safe and Sound' from her Hunger Games series.

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The young Moon Guard's hand shook, like an oak leaf caught in the autumn wind, as he raised it weakly, searching blindly for the woman he knew to be standing by his bed.

"St-stormsinger?" His voice felt like anyone's but his own: too rough, too deep, like he hadn't had a drop of water in days, or like the demonic energies of Sargeras' 'gift' had finally reached his throat.

The gentle laugh that greeted his words was as soothing and welcome as a spring shower. "You know that is not my name." She said in return, the quel'dorei accent ringing clear and proud.

She could only have been one of the quel'dorei, after all. Here, in Lady Azhara's palace, tirelessly tending his wounds and comforting him as he _changed_ , perhaps his body remaining the same, but the fel slowly burning away and replacing the arcane magic within him.

First, it had been his sight, the world suddenly shifting to gray, overlaid with the iridescent hues of magic. The brilliant indigo of arcane power that ebbed and flowed through almost every quel'dorei. The pale silvery-blue blessing of Elune that shone in her priestesses, the perfect emerald of his brother's druidic power, and the sickly yellow-green of the fel as it slowly consumed more and more of his surroundings.

Then...Then the pain had started. Unlike anything else he had ever known, as if his very body was at war with itself. That pain that had exiled him from the frontlines to the soft bed in a room that slowly smelled less and less of sharp healing herbs and tonics and more and more like the pungent, acrid stench of the fel.

But pain he could manage. His new magical sight was nothing short of a valuable asset. The worst, the part that made him question himself for the first time in his life, was the _whispering_ in his mind, his thoughts suddenly, instantly, twisting to darkened and perverted versions of his intentions. Images of Malfurion, mocking him as reckless and incompetent, reminding him that he would only ever be in his twin's shadow. Tyrande throwing his devotion into his face, proclaiming him to be a 'Mistake of Elune'.

Lost in nightmares, he had wondered if this was really how it would all end: driven mad by the torments of the fel until he was no more than a broken, empty shell. The perfect tool of the Legion.

The scent of fresh rain reached his nose, clearing his mind as quickly as it had the first time he had caught her unique perfume. As he had every day from the first he had met her, he relaxed into her touch, breathing deeply as the storm raging in his mind calmed to the music of her voice.

"How can you be called anything else," He asked, voice breaking as he finally found himself explaining the nickname he had given her weeks ago."When only your voice can calm the torment in my mind?"

Her long sigh made him wish he could see more clearly, perhaps enough to wipe the tears starting form in the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. To see the color of her long hair wrapped in a tall ponytail, and to have the strength to put an arm around her slumped shoulders.

"Y-you'll have to learn to calm your mind for yourself." Her voice was heavy, mournful, and spoke of one parting with something they held more dear than their own life. Those eyes, piercing and unwavering from his, were already wrinkled at the corners from years of being held in hard lines constantly. She was too young to be so serious. She should be worrying about fashions, about patty intrigues, rather than watching her life ripped to shreds by the Legion. _He_ should be worrying about his next promotion, about impressing his commander, about finding some woman who could replace the cavern Tyrande had left in his heart.

Rather than let those thoughts darken the moment further, he focused on her delicate fingers, calloused by centuries of training with a bow, trying to memorise the paths her light touch danced over the tattoos covering his chest, his arms, his hands.

"I cannot stay here, in Zin-Azshari. I have to go. I can't play this game any longer." He heard the tears in her voice, even as the first warm drops hit his still-tender wounds, the salt stinging as a reminder of all he had sacrificed, and all that he would lose before Legion was defeated.

"C-can you sing for me? One last time?" Dammit. He wished he wouldn't sound as if he were close to crying, but she had been the only thing he could even come close to calling a friend, a true ally, a kindred spirit walking the dangerous tightrope of feigned allegiance to Xavius and Azhara's twisted plots, since walking into this Elune-forsaken city.

 _I remember tears streaming down your face, when I said I'd never let you go._

Her voice was low, like distant thunder, as familiar as his brother's scowl, yet the words were new. Something special to remember this moment by, this final chance at hearing her voice.

 _When all those shadows almost killed your light. I remember you said 'Don't leave me here alone'..._

She had never, in all these weeks, seen anything like the look on the Moon Guard's face as he pleaded her to sing for him. In that instant, he ceased to be the arrogant, reckless, and impulsive sorcerer favored by Azshara, and instead became a young man as desperately lost in this chaotic war as she was. _Elune...please...give me the strength to sing this final song..._

 _Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound._

She prepared to leave, but the iron grip on her wrist held her fast at his side as he dragged her ear close to his mouth.  
"Promise me...promise me you will never make the mistake of tampering with the fel." His words were as earnest and desperate as her reply.  
"I swear by Elune's grace." It was the second time today she had heard someone, broken by this cruel war, deliver those same words. But, unlike this morning, when she had barely managed a nod at her mother's pleas, she let her lips graze the man's forehead, just above the cloth bandage concealing his eyes.

Her final gesture of friendship, of caring, complete, it was all she could manage to stride gracefully from the room, collecting her bow and full quiver, head held proud and tall, as the picture of a loyal subject to her Queen.

The moment she was beyond the guard's piercing gaze, she felt her self-control crumble as quickly as her father's will had crumbled under the Fel and she obeyed the silent order that had been contained in her mother's eyes as quickly as her feet would carry her. She ran.


	2. Tremors of War

A/N: massive kudos to my friend Dragonheart who knows enough WoW lore to be considered Nozdormu and has been checking all this stuff for timeline errors/general accuracy problems. Don't worry, I'm paying them with food.

Also, massive thanks to my one follower! And to everyone else who hasn't formally followed but is keeping up with this!  
Please review if you enjoy! First reviewer gets a cookie (::)

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Ten Thousand Years Later

Adariana still vividly remembered the only promise she had let herself make in the last ten millennia. She also vividly remembered every moment that had come before and after, from the very moment her eyes had opened. Once, people had commented on her memory, saying she had her father's gift for recollection and would surely also have his talent for magic. Those people were only half-right. And long dead.

She knew the final contorted faces of pain that every slaughtered satyr had made as her arrows found their unerring marks, knew the sticky warmth of demon's blood on her leather gloves as a succubus' still-beating heart forced the last of her blood from her body. She would never forget the haunted looks of orphaned children who had been forced to watch their parents consumed by eerie green fires or the keening scream as the world itself cried out at the Sundering.

She had bled, she had cried until her tears ran dry, she had stared her worst fears in the face. And with each butchered demon and each broken body of a child's tiny form the vow she had taken to an acquaintance became more and more important to keep. She would never, _never_ , allow the fel to use her for its purposes. Not like it had used her father. Not like it had the quel'dorei.

The quel'dorei, not her people. _Her people_ were the Kal'dorei. The descendants of the wise who had seen her father's madness for what it was. The brave who had risked everything to stand in the way of Queen Azshara. Those were her people. Nothing would ever change that. The sky could fall, the great World Tree Nordrassil could rot, but her people would always be the same people Malfurion and Tyrande called their people.

A lifetime of physical training served her well as she reached the summit of the staircase leading to Tyrande Whisperwind's office. Unsurprisingly, the violet haired form of Shandris Feathermoon was already at the door as well.

"Shandris." Adariana said with a warm smile. She was one of the familiar faces Adariana always looked forward to seeing, as a close friend to both her and her adoptive mother. The other elf looked her over for a moment, before laughing softly.

"Adariana! I hardly recognised you without a hood concealing your face. Where have you been? I have been waiting for you for nearly an hour." With the last statement, Shandris raised a long eyebrow. Adariana spent time in the wilds the way druids spent time in the Emerald Dream: absent for decades at a time and only returning to the world in the most dire of circumstances. Even amongst Night Elves, Adariana was easily distracted from meetings and formal duties by animals, plants, all things the lived and grew, and she was almost chronically late and preferred living on 'wilderness time' that is to say, that things would be done when they were done and not be accomplished by the hands of a clock.

Adariana shrugged. "I was doing some research in the city library. Must have lost track of time." In truth, she had spent the last three days pouring over every possible document regarding the fate of the satyrs. Everything she had read pointed that they should still be imprisoned, asleep, beneath the roots of Shaladrassil, and yet, she had battled through a gauntlet of satyr patrols ringing a particular area of Ashenvale. In and of itself, it was an ill omen, but coupled with Tyrande's sudden, urgent summons for her most trusted Ranger Generals, Adariana's instincts were rapidly winding themselves higher and higher into a state of paranoia, half-expecting anything from the corruption of the Emerald Dream to Sargeras emerging from the Well beneath Nordrassil.

Shandris merely raised her eyebrow higher. "You, Adariana Stormsinger, spending any more time than absolutely necessary amongst civilisation, and in the Library nonetheless? It's no wonder Tyrande is worried."

Adariana's mind had almost concocted the perfect retort when the office door swung open, revealing Tyrande's poised form. As always, the tall woman was elegantly clothed in white robes, her deep blue hair immaculately styled, the very image of Elune reflected in Her servant. By contrast, Adariana was all too aware that she had neglected to change from her travel-stained leathers and must smell like an unholy combination of satyr's blood, sweat, mud, and saber cat. Her muted teal hair was matted and littered with stray twigs and leaves, and it would just be easier to cut off her long ponytail, rather than try to combat the mass of snarls. Even Shandris painted a more presentable picture: cloak perfectly arranged, armour clean, ceremonial dagger at her hip, long hair elegantly braided.

"Generals. Please enter. We have urgent situations requiring our full attentions."

Sadly, the meeting was exactly what Adariana had expected. She wasn't the only Sentinel to have noticed the Satyrs, or the red-skinned brutes who seemed to be in their league. The furbolgs attempting to escape Ashenvale was tragic, but understood and expected. And she wasn't the only to have realised much of the plant and animal life had lost their vitality. But...what Shandris was saying...that _Cenarius_ had been killed...seemed impossible. She had never seen the demigod, but had heard ample of him from the druids. Who would possibly want the demigod dead, and be powerful enough to accomplish such a feat? Apparently, the red barbarians were more of an organised threat than their first assessments had indicated.

"This new race, the orcs, are far more dangerous than anticipated." Tyrande said grimly, echoing Adariana's thoughts. "Shandris, take your group and eliminate them from our lands. Adariana, you will accompany me to Mount Hyjal. I fear that there may be more nefarious plots hiding in the shadows."

Tyrande saw the apprehension twist Adariana's perfect features. In the olden days, before the War, people spoke of Adariana as if she were the only woman to rival Lady Azshara's beauty, and Tyrande had thought them blubbering sycophants who only didn't wish to displease Lord Xavius by implying his eldest daughter didn't have _something_ to compensate for her lack of magical talent. She had thought of them as such, until she had caught a glimpse of the midnight-purple-skinned, willowy woman with hair shining in tones of greyish blue. But then, as now, her first thought had been that it was a cold kind of beauty, like a carven statue, too flawless, too idealized, for her to be a real person.

"Tyrande, if I may, I think that our efforts should be focused on the orcs. Clearly, they are the greater threat at the moment." Shadris insisted.

Tyrande nodded. Yes, the orcs were the larger priority, but Adariana's reports of satyrs becoming more active worried her deeply. Few had dedicated themselves to hunting satyrs with the energy and fervor that Adariana had, and, if the slate blue-haired huntress said something was amiss, then something was very much wrong.

"The orcs are our priority, Shandris. I merely wish to satisfy my instincts that there is more to this than meets the eye. To this end, you will take your Shadowleaf sentinels and remove the orcs from our lands, by whatever means are necessary. I, Adariana, and a small group of sentinels will head to awaken the druids."

Shandris' face quickly fell as she realised the gravity of her mother's words. "Do you truly think the situation that dire?"

Tyrande nodded sadly. "Yes. I fear another war that will rip this world apart."


	3. Ghosts and Memories

A/N: So..I kind of skipped over the Third War. If I get any requests to do some chapters for the Third War I will do so!

Thank you to all of you who are following/reading this!

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Some Months Later

Nyhomi shifted uncomfortably underneath her rider. She could smell the fel in the air, marking the path that her mistress' quarry had taken. She wondered if her mistress truly knew what she was doing, following the powerful demon. Yes, she had fought demons many times, but none of them made her mistress' heart race this way, like she was desiring him.

Adariana gently buried her fingers in the saber cat's thick fur. "Shhh...girl...it's alright. We're just making sure he leaves the forest, alright? I know you're disappointed, but this is one demon we won't kill."

Memories of the conversation that led her here floated back to the surface. Malfurion's stormy expression and non-too-subtle growl as he questioned her ability to be in proximity to the other Stormrage without 'also succumbing to the allure of the fel', the unspoken question in Tyrande's eyes as she had offered to ensure that Illidan Stormrage held to his word and left Azeroth. She deeply suspected the only reason her request had been granted was a hope that she might prevent whatever inevitable idiocy involving the fel that Illidan would endeavor to accomplish next. Or possibly, Malfurion wanted to emphasize his displeasure with Maiev Shadowsong by tacitly endorsing Illidan's actions.

Such thoughts left her head spinning and aching as she tried to unravel the behavior of people. It reminded her too much of the days of Suramar and the Quel'dorei, where everything was an ulterior motive and nothing was ever said in the open. Her brother had excelled at such manipulations, while she had been told, by their father no less, that she possessed all the subtlety of an Amani berserker.

And people wondered why she preferred the company of animals. Animals were predictable. Not simple, but predictable. You could guess how a brooding hippogriff would react when you approached their nest, and you could just as easily placate her with a fresh flank of venison and some soft words. People though? A person would always look for some deeper reason, some motivation that fit their idea of you. In her experience, those ideas were often uncharitable in the least and hostile at worst. Or, worse still, she would trust someone and believe in a good in them, only to have her image of them torn apart. Little surprise she sought solitude for months on end. She couldn't disappoint herself, not the way other people could disappoint her.

After 10,000 years, Adariana wasn't entirely certain she was still entitled to have expectations of the brave Moon Guard, but he had certainly disappointed the ones she had. One would think that a few millennia in the Barrow Deep prison would give one ample time for retrospection, to assess their actions and to ensure one would not repeat their previous mistakes, yet, here she was, tracking a sorcerer who just couldn't resist playing with a little more fel power, who couldn't resist proving, yet again, that he was the most reckless, the most arrogant, the most infuriating elf in existence.

At least tracking him was easy. Deep foot prints, mutilated demons, smears of glowing fel-blood etching their way into trees...If it wasn't for her target being an arrogant sorcerer, she might assume such blatant tracks were being left with the intention that she follow them. But she doubted he was capable of such subtlety. Even then, why would he employ such a strategy if he couldn't possibly know he was being followed? Perhaps it was a bit arrogant to assume her prey was unaware of her presence, but then again, Adarian had had ample reason to perfect disappearing into the wilderness without a trace. She had the advantage in this territory, not her quarry.

The bright midday sun sent dappled patches across the forest floor and the combination of heady warmth and the soothing rhythm of Nhyomi;s easy lope left her slowly drifting to sleep. It wouldn't be the first time she had taken a nap and trusted her fate to her old friend, nor would it be the first time they had followed such an easy trail that the saber cat was more than up to the task.

She could fall asleep, if not for the disturbing images that always flickered to the forefront of her mind.

 _Even after 10,000 years, he was still incredibly handsome. His chest was chiseled and sculpted like Tauren warrior's, glowing green markings trailing across 12-pack abs to disappear below the waist of his pants. His glowing eyes seemed to bore into hers as that wonderfully deep baritone voice rumbled against her chest, warm breath caressing her lips._

" _Stormsinger...I thought you had forgotten me..." His grip tightened at her hips, strong fingers threatening to bruise , even through her leather armour, as he pulled her closer. Pulled her against the rigid, pulsing bulge at the front of his pants._

" _I could never forget you..." She whispered, his smirk sending heat to pool between her legs, even as his rough lips crushed against hers, sharp fangs grazing her bottom lip in a silent entreat for her to open her mouth. Her will to resist vanished, his tongue invading her mouth in something rough and wild and perfect..._

A low growl shook her awake. Nyhomi swung her head around to fix her with a piercing yellow glare. As had come to be the norm over the last few days, those yellow eyes were full of a mix of reproach and boredom, like the cat was silently asking why she was being forced to participate in Adariana's hopeless pinings.

"You'd understand if you'd ever found a male you could stand without wanting to kill him." Adariana answered with a smirk, rubbing that spot behind Nyhomi's ear that elicited a resentful purr. But she felt a familiar kind of sadness take her mind, reminding her just how far-fetched her fantasy was. Illidan had barely spared her a snort and a glare as he announced he wasn't doing this for the good of the world, but for Tyrande's sake. He'd forgotten her, and no wonder. What had she expected? Him to always treasure those few weeks of internal torture he had suffered in Zin-Azshari? Him to silently long for her the way she had longed for him, when he was still so clearly consumed by infatuation with Tyrande?

Elune's grace...she was the worst kind of fool. The one who saw what she wanted to see, the naive woman who had held onto the flutter of warmth he imparted in her, and who convinced herself it was love. Why did she even value love? Love was what had kept her mother standing by her father's side, even as he lost himself first to his own ambitions and then to those of the Legion. Love had tortured her mother into a timid, stammering wisp of the vibrant enchantress Adariana remembered from her youth. Love for her father had tortured Adariana herself as she spent centuries trying to become what she could never be: a user of the arcane talent that all Quel'dorei society had revolved around. She had locked herself in the manor library for hours, days, on end, praying that somewhere in those musty tomes would be a way for her to force the arcane magic that _must_ have been in her blood. A way that she could be as flawless as Xavalis,her handsome, confident brother with enough arcane prowess for three talented sorcerers.

In the end though, ambition had been the only thing that really mattered. Her father's ambition. Anything for another moment of Lady Azshara's attention. Anything for that secret that would secure his family beyond his own lifetime. She might have once believed that it was love for his family that had driven her father to those lengths, the kind of fatherly love she witnessed in normal _Kal'dorei_ families every day. That was the greatest lie she had told herself. That he had only ever wanted what was best for her, for her her, for her mother. Yes. It was love, or wanting to love, which had made her twist everything around her into a rose-tinted vision of perfection.

Love that hadn't hoped to stand against the tarnished promise of limitless power the Legion had offered. Love had done nothing but etch deep wounds into her heart, wounds that had festered and eventually scarred to make who she was now: Adariana Stormsinger, the largely silent huntress who spoke freely to only three people, who hunted satyrs and demons with a frightening obsession, who had to somehow atone for the sins of her father. Adariana Stormsinger was a terrifying figure, a half-wild creature of the forest, closer in behavior to the very things she hunted than the people she protected. She had left behind all that she was, and that would just have to include Illidan Stormrage, the last true reminder of her old life.


	4. Betrayal

A/N: I apologise in advance. This is the point at which things start going divergent to cannon, and more into a what-if/AU sort of tangent. Also...bear with me as I switch from third person POV to first person...

Huge thank you to everyone still following! I know it's been close to a month since the last update, but, you know, college and final and stuff. I'll try to update sooner!

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The insistent cawing of a raven broke my thoughts, thankfully. The last three days had given me far too much time to think, to dwell on the past. Normally, I was too focused on my own survival to entertain such musings, but now I was only an unwanted member in a group of thirty-odd Wardens intent on hunting down Illidan Stormrage. We were making good time at the moment, riding in a canter that our nightsabers could maintain for most of the night, though it would still be pitifully easy for another ambush of satyrs to slow us down. The wounds on my neck and arms were healing cleanly, to no small relief on my part. Nearly ten thousand years ago those same gashes might have already turned me into one of the hideous abominations, constant reminders of how my own bloodline betrayed Azeroth, yet it seemed their contagion was lessened now.

I watched, curious, as the sleek black bird alighted on Lady Maiev's arm. With the same quick and precise motions she used in every other task, she unfurled the tiny scrap of parchment that had been tied to the bird's leg and read the missive. Concealed beneath her ever present helm, I could not see her expression. However, with the sudden tension in her slim frame and the way one hand strayed towards her blade, the missive clearly bore ill news, leaving a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. Had someone beyond Malfurion recognised me? I thought I had caught a brief glimpse of Fandral Staghelm, but while distaste was a mild word for my feelings towards him, would he really be able to place my face amongst ten thousand years of meetings?

"Something catch your notice, Sentinel?" I was amazed. Maiev managed to use the exact scathing tone I applied to the word 'Satyr' to make 'Sentinel' sound less like an honorable role and more like some kind of monster. Not that I could blame her. At Lady Tyrande's side I had been equally responsible for the deaths of the Wardens in Barrowdeep. Some lingering bit of pride demanded I lash back with an equally scathing comment, yet that would solve nothing and only serve to deepen the rift between us.

"I am merely curious at the import of the missive you received, if it bears relevance to our mission." By some small miracle of Elune I managed to keep my voice perfectly neutral. Father would be so proud, his useless little daughter finally learned social skills.

Maiev turned her luminous eyes on me, seeming to bore into my soul and issue an unspoken challenge. "Strange that you should mention our mission..."

I knew that tone of voice far too well. The perfect blend of musing and hostile, as if she were considering whether to kill me now or let something else take my life. Fighting the instincts screaming to run, I remained still as a rock, moving only with Nhyomi's steady canter, waiting for Lady Shadowsong to complete her thought.

"I received intelligence that the Betrayer has a potential ally in this forest, some scum of Xavius' spawn that has yet to be exterminated. We must not allow him to gain any aid." Determined as she was hostile, I could not help but hope that perhaps it was my brother that note referred to, rather than me. My alliance was firmly with the Kal'dorei, as anyone who had served beside me could attest. I was here to bring the Betrayer to justice, as much as any of the Wardens. Until I could hear from his lips the cause for his continued dalliance with the fel, I would assume him to be working for the Legion. It would easier to condemn without proof and to kill without true cause if I could convince myself he was the same kind of evil as my father had been; power-mad and willing to go to any length for more.

I nodded in agreement. "Is the source of this information reliable? I do not mean to distrust your sources, but we must be sure of this."

My blood froze as she smirked in reply. I _had_ to see that note, had to know what she knew of me. Had to know who had recognised me. It was not only my life in danger, but Lady Tyrande's reputation. If word got out she had openly welcomed the daughter of Xavius into her inner circle her position would come crashing down around her. As much as I did not want to die, I could _not_ allow one of my only friends to suffer such.

Daylight shone brightly as I stole across the campsite we had made. Lady Maiev's deep and even breaths from within her tent was a good omen. The Watcher was fast asleep, but perhaps not for long. I crouched low to avoid as much noise as possible as I entered her tent, pretending to myself she was some sleeping beast, rather than a peaceful looking Warden. It would never fail to amaze me how serene even the most dangerous of individuals could look while in the embrace of sleep. Her pack stood upright against one pole of the tent, the missive I sought practically within arm's reach.

Parchment crinkled loudly and I froze, one hand deep within her pack and the other seeking my dagger; the only weapon I had of any use in this small space. She merely rolled over and mumbled softly, her breathing uninterrupted. A long breath escaped my lips and my fingers found the small piece of parchment with heavy, blocky writing.

 _Maiev:_

 _You and I both know who Adariana Stormsinger truly is._

 _The weakness of her father remains in her blood._

 _She was corrupted by the Betrayer long ago.  
What other explanation is there for her questioning his banishment?  
She will only continue to aid him and the Legion._

 _This cannot happen._

 _~Fandral Staghelm_

Rage and indignation boiled within me. I was corrupted by Illidan? What kind of game did Fandral Staghelm think he was playing at? Did ten thousand years of loyalty count for nothing? Had he forgotten I sacrificed _everything_ to aid the rebellion? Or had he finally lost his mind on some delusion that he could discredit Malfurion enough to become the Archdruid?

Was that it? He wanted my bloodline revealed so Tyrande would be shamed and Malfurion would be implicated as a conspirator as he had done nothing in ten thousand years. The thought was sickening. While the Archdruid was not my favorite person, he was still a good man trying to do right for his people. He didn't deserve to suffer for my actions.

One way or another, I had to make sure nothing of this showed badly on Tyrande and Malfurion. Dying was clearly the easiest way to make sure the scandal died down quickly. Alternately, I could just continue hunting down Illidan and ensure he faced justice. Running would only imply my own guilt and play right into whatever mad scheme Fandral had going and yet...it would give Tyrande and Malfurion the freedom to act as they saw best without worrying for me and my reputation.

The time had come for me to become a betrayer in my own right.

Branches whipped against my face, wind whistled in my ears, and Nhyomi's powerful strides carried me deep into the forest with a speed even I hadn't known she was capable of. Everything was a blur, all attempts at stealth forgotten as we crashed through a ring of satyr patrols as though there were not there, my bow seeming to fire of its own accord and leaving a trail of dead demons in its wake.

The sun was hanging low in the sky when I finally realised there were burning hoofprints along the path we were following and a campfire up ahead. In my haste I had merely spurred Nhyomi on and my loyal saber had taken the path we were already following, one that was leading me directly to Illidan Stormrage. Shit.


	5. Capture

A/N: Yeah...I completely made up the brief phrase in nazja. Sorry, couldn't find a dictionary online for it. I did a bit of a rewrite at the end, didn't really like the way I had ended it before but was too busy to correct it until now. So much for regular updates, but I'll try to get another chapter out soon, I promise!  
Also...I don't say 'thank you' enough to everyone reading/following/reviewing/sharing/favoriting this. You are the best! 3

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A low chuckle had me whipping around in the saddle. A lone satyr stood, leaned against a tree, fel-fire sparking between his claws with casual ease, glowing sickly green in the darkness. Slowly, a smirk distorted his already hideous features as he noticed my gaze.

"Well, well, well...what have we here? A little Sentinel who thinks she is skilled enough to take my master prisoner?" He laughed, a low disturbing sound like a sword grating against a rock.

"Count yourself lucky you are not already dead, monster." I spat back, drawing my moonsword. His smirk merely grew as he took a step forward, daring me to attack.

"You dare to threaten the Satyr Prince?" He inhaled deeply through his nose, hoping to catch a whiff of my fear. It was funny, actually, that he thought I would fear him. I knew Satyr princes, had my own brother transformed into one, but this particular individual was a pretty pathetic excuse for a satyr in the first place, let alone a prince.

I did give my own chuckle when I saw a tremor of fear course through the satyr. Now I had control of the situation.

"What is this?" I asked in a condescending tone, as if speaking to small child. "Is the mighty Satyr Prince scared of a little Sentinel?" Toying with my prey may not have been a wise idea, but I was too tired, too angry, too eager for a fight to care. Though...this one might not present much of a challenge. Skinny, fur hanging in long matted clumps, short, completely lacking any confidence in his stance. A true satyr prince wouldn't have bandied words with me, preferring to simply kill me before I could be a nuisance. Oh, sure, his eyes glowed with the fel and the the tiny sparks of fire marked him a hellcaller, but I was far from impressed. Hellcallers were generally arrogant and preferred to toy with their victims for as long as possible, extending the agony. Funny, I'd gotten pretty good at playing the same game with hellcallers, but at the moment, such discipline was escaping me. I just wanted the annoying creature dead.

I rushed forward with my blade, easily deflecting a blast as I pinned him to the same tree he had leaned against earlier. His breath smelled of rotting meat and the acrid stench of fel, but I willed myself to remain close.

"What was that about me being unable to take you on?" I asked, vitriolic and basking in the glow of my impending victory. Strangely, the satyr only grinned smugly.

"I'm not so certain you want to kill me."

I pressed the blade to his throat, drawing black blood and revelling at the power I currently held over his life. "Oh really? Say your prayers, maybe Sargeras will let you reincarnate as a more powerful demon."

I drew back the blade to strike a final blow and found I could not move my arm. I tried to step away from the satyr, thinking perhaps some shield held me at bay, but to no avail. My feet were anchored as firmly to the ground as if they were a thousand year old oak tree. Only my eyes seemed capable of movement, but when I caught sight of the thing slithering towards me, I almost wished my vision had been fixed to the tree and smugly grinning satyr in front of me.

" _Heshtar shelahshir ar shan_."

Said the being, her face and body covered in brilliant purple and blue scales as her 'hair' was replaced by a mass of writhing snakes. At least, I guessed the individual to be a woman. Her figure was little disguised by the scales, spines, and extra arms and she wore golden armor both covering her breasts and around her hips. Something about her almost reminded me of a quel'dorei woman, perhaps the proud posture and arcane magic wreathing all six of her arms. Perhaps it was the calculating gleam in her eyes and way she gazed at me as though I was an insect.

Internally, I cursed myself for letting my guard down. I should have known the satyr would have some form of ally. Were these some new form of demon? Another corrupted version of the kal'dorei?

With the sound of something scraping against leaves and underbrush, a companion, also presumably female, approached. This second individual had emerald scales, but large fins seemed to be her hair, a small improvement over the snakes. They spoke in their tongue, a strange series of hisses and clicks, more akin to a snake than any demonic tongue, before the mage opened a swirling disk of azure and violet and levitated my frozen form through the magical gateway.

We emerge from the portal, a tang of salt in the air and the crash of nearby waves another layer of sound in the background. More of the snake-people slither about, their tails two or three times the height of their body, and scales shimmering in exotic shades of orange, magenta, and teal. In a strange way, the women are almost beautiful, if alien, but the males, with their tentacle-like beards and long fangs merely look like some breed of brutish abominations that belong under the ocean surface. Interspersed with the snake-people are more satyrs, and my fingers itch for my sword or bow. How I would love to slaughter these demons, better yet interrogate their master to discover what madness has finally broken his mind.

As if my very thoughts have summoned him, a deep baritone rumbles behind me, a voice so familiar even if I no longer know the speaker.

"You have found the Sentinel then, Lady Vashj?"

Vashj. The name is familiar. One I knew well. Lady Vashj...Queen Azshara's favorite consort and the woman my mother hated with a burning passion, always convinced my father still cared for his once-fiance more than his wife. I met her once, a powerful sorceress and skilled politician. Neither of those...creatures...could have been Vashj, could they? No...Lady Vashj was killed in the Sundering, as was Queen Azshara. Or were they?

"Yesss my lord. We found her. Ssshe isss the one who wasss killing our ssscoutsss."

"Good work. Release her, but ensure she does not escape."

The magic faded, my arm dropping back to my side, my sword in the hands of Vashj. I had no sooner tensed to run when one of male snake-people gripped my shoulders, scales rough on my bare skin. For a moment, I still thought I could break free, but I merely succeeded in bruising my upper arms in his crushing grip. His lips curled back in what might have been a smile as he spoke again in that strange language.

Lady Vashj gave some reply as she tightened a twist of rough rope around my wrists and the male switched one hand to hold my throat in clear threat, even as the other forced my mouth open so his commandress could tie a gag firmly in place.

Trussed up like some kind of game and bound to a sturdy tree, there was little chance of me breaking free. Even if I could manage to escape the ropes, there were still snake-people and satyrs every dozen steps and my weapons were being inspected by Lady Vashj and her apparent master, Illidan Stormrage. It was not a good situation, and one I should have been able to avoid with consummate ease. I could have just ridden past the satyr without a second thought, could have figured someone else would kill it, but instead I fell to its bait and was ambushed. It was exactly the same mistake I had been training other Sentinels to avoid for nearly ten thousand years!

I tried to tell myself that things could have ended worse; I _could_ have been captured by satyrs in service of the Legion, rather than those in service of Illidan Stormrage, though, at this point, there seemed to be little difference between those fates. How long would I remain here? Would they move out and leave me to be found by Maiev and her Wardens? More than likely _she_ would leave me to rot in my current position.

The chill of fear took its hold in my veins as I slowly realised just how much danger I was in. The prisoner of a potential mad-man, the Wardens my only hope of rescue, and a confusing political plot catching me in its net. I had nothing to bargain with and no value to Illidan, beyond my information on Maiev and her movements. If I betrayed her, it might be enough to spare my life for the moment, but then I _would_ be aiding him. Could I even trust any bargain I might make with him for my freedom? I dreaded the thought that this might be the end. That I would die here, silently, with no chance of a somewhat dignified end in combat.

It was fear, and then it was something darker, more anguished. Had the years really twisted Illidan enough that he could do such a thing? He might not remember me, but surely he remembered who _he_ was? And there I was...thinking again. Questioning whether Maiev's hatred was right or wrong, questioning Tyrande's judgement, and all the while clinging to a past I longed to abandon. I wanted to badly to extinguish that tiny voice in my head whispering that Maiev and Tyrande were wrong, and to forget that I once spoken to a young man who hadn't caved to the Legion, but had paid a terrible price to defend everything we knew. Everything we knew. What was there now that Illidan or I had known than? Suramar was destroyed by demons, Zin-Azshari was at the bottom of the ocean, and my father was long dead. Nothing remained of that past, of those people and places that had fallen to the Legion like so many leaves to an autumn storm.


	6. Secrets and Shadows

A/N: I know. I know. I know. It's been a month and a half since I've updated. I'd blame IRL stuff and being busy, but...those excuses suck. Welp. Here goes me attempting to be Illidan. Please read and review whether you hated or loved it or somewhere in the middle!  
To those of you who are still reading at this point: Thanks! You're awesome!

Now let's do this thing!

* * *

"Sssshe ssseemsss familiar...doessss ssshe not my lord?" Lady Vashj asked, drawing my attention away from the bow I held. As usual, the Naga's instincts were correct. There _was_ something frustratingly familiar about the captured Sentinel. However, without having heard her voice, I could only guess based on her mannerisms, which were difficult to observe while she was restrained.

I nodded in reply, and her hiss of frustration told me I was not the only one struggling to place the Sentinel. Perhaps she had been the one who aided Tyrande in setting me free? But then there was this bow I held, a beautiful weapon from well before the War of the Ancients. She might be older I had thought, perhaps a kal'dorei who had survived the War. She was likely kal'dorei, at any rate. There was not even a whisper of arcane magic in her.

Again though, the bow caught my attention, at odds with the image I was forming of our prisoner. Everything about it was not only well made, but of the highest quality materials. Maple, oak, and brightwood layered together in thin veneers for strength and flexibility, inlaid with truesilver to hold the strong enchantments permeating the entire piece. Hardly the weapon of a commoner. Even a Sentinel would have been hard-pressed to afford such a weapon. Ironically, the only people possessed of the sheer wealth to craft such a weapon were also the least likely to rely on mere weapons: quel'dorei. The magic seemed to be concentrated on a sigil concealed beneath the leather-wrapped grip, the symbol forming a curtain half-concealing a star.

Ten thousand years had passed since I had least seen that insignia. Once, everyone in Azshara's empire had known that symbol as the crest of Shadowveil house. Even after the passage of time, I was certain few would have forgotten its most notorious member: Azshara's right-hand and the first of the satyr, Xavius. How did a kal'dorei sentinel come to hold a weapon bearing _his_ crest _ten-thousand years_ after the War of the Ancients?

I must have made some noise, for Vashj turned her attention back to me with a startled expression.

"Isss sssomething wrong...my lord?"

"Not yet. Speak to the prisoner, find out who she is and why she carries this particular weapon."

Her mystified expression looked out of place on her serpentine features. Clearly, she had not noticed what I had about the bow, nor did I intend for her to. If, and the if was as improbable as Zin-Azshari rising from the bottom of the ocean, if the Sentinel was who this bow lead me to believe, Vashj would hardly be pleased. The daughter of her rival reappearing only to try to destroy her current cause. But if Xavius' daughter had somehow survived...what was she doing here? Why would she dare to do anything that others could interpret as 'involvement' with the Legion? Would she remember me?

I watched as Vashj approached the Sentinel, carefully removing her gag and watching her as if expecting her to bite at her. Strangely, the Sentinel merely watched Vashj curiously, but remained resolutely silent. My mouth twitched upwards slightly, apparently our Sentinel was hardly cooperative. Frustration flickered through Vashj's form as my attention was drawn away by other matters.

By nightfall, my business was finished, and I risked a glance at the Sentinel. Her neck stretched at an awkward angle as she rested her head on a shoulder, eyes closed and her breathing deep and even. She must have fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, and a momentary pang of sympathy twinged in my heart; a distant memory of nights spent trying to find a comfortable position in a stone cell. Sleep had worked its own strange magic on her form, the harsh lines of her face relaxed as she was no longer the hostile Sentinel, and instead...

 _She had fallen asleep again, hunched in the wooden chair, a damp rag slipping through her fingers. Careful not to wake her, I slipped the cloth from her grip and set it back on the bedside table. My unnatural sight was sharpening; even in the darkness I could pick out the line of each eyelash as they left delicate crescents on her cheekbones, and a line of spittle was slowly tracing down her chin. It was hardly the picture one expected of a high-ranking quel'dorei woman._

 _My soft laugh sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent room. While Adariana slept, she became a different person. Gone was the tension, her guarded posture, the walls around her heart, and the scars that were no doubt etched into her soul. It occurred to me how we were like two sides of the same coin: both born to people who thought they knew the course our lives should take, both determined to forge our own paths, and now, willing to sacrifice...Willing to sacrifice what? I would give_ everything _to see the Legion defeated, as if the world needed any more proof than my 'treachery'. But what about her? In the end, how far would she go?_

A growl pushes past my throat as I dismiss the memory. Another life destroyed by the Legion, another face only I seem to remember. If _she_ could see me now, what would she think of me? Why do I care what the dead think of me?

Still though, the Sentinel's form draws me like a siren's call, my body reminding me of how long it has been since I have held a woman, and despite her temper, she is far from difficult to look at. There is a kind of beauty to her that reminds me of elegant ballrooms and extravagant parties, of the old quel'dorei decadence. In a shimmering gown and adorned with jewels, she would hardly have looked out of place on the arm of a quel'dorei lord, perhaps even Xavius himself. Again...there was that uncanny sense that I knew her from somewhere.

"Sentinel." The word left my lips before I could stop it. Instantly her eyes flashed open, a glimmer of hope quickly chased away by fear as she took in my appearance. She tensed, like a prey animal trapped under the gaze of predator, but somehow, it only made me feel like a monster rather than in control of the situation.

"I-Illidan."Her voice was breathless, panic spreading across her features as she tried to twist in the rope, struggling for some means of escape.

"I only intend to ask a few questions. If they are answered you might be released. If not, we will leave you here for Warden Shadowsong to find." I had hardly thought it possible to panic the Sentinel any further, but apparently the idea of being left to Maiev was ,more terrifying than whatever torture she expected from me. I couldn't help the smirk that stretched at my lips, at the least, this Sentinel knew who was more likely to harm her.

"You expect me to betray the Wardens to you?" Her tone was indignant, her features sliding into a mask of anger and hatred. Deep creases formed around her eyes, etched from years of internal torment and a determination to not let it be known. But even with the carefully practiced expression, even with her hardened eyes and sullen tone, there was still the quaver in her voice as her heart raced, pulse throbbing visibly just below her jaw.

"Yes. Because I won't kill you out of spite." Again, fear flashed in her eyes. At least I _knew_ I had one form of leverage over her.

Her eyes held mine for a long moment. Even through the blindfold, few were willing to let their gaze mingle with mine. Strangely, her fear drained away, and she nodded once, suspicious and wary, but no longer afraid.

Her courage was something to her credit. If she could be persuaded to see the Legion's threat, she might even be a powerful asset in the war to come. A scout, trained in stealth and subterfuge, with good combat skills. Moreover, she was still a kal'dorei. Her lack of demonic taint would make her a better emissary to those who doubted my true motivations. I just had to gain her loyalty.

"What is your name and rank, Sentinel?" Information she no doubt would be under orders to reveal if captured anyway, it would give me a reference for her telling the truth.

"Adariana..." She paused for a long moment, eyes meeting mine once more. _Adariana_. That name was only common amongst a certain generation, those who had been born just after Xavius Shadowveil's daughter. It confirmed my suspicion that she was older than appearances indicated, yet it still wasn't enough.

"Sha-Stormsinger. Adariana Stormsinger. Sentinel General to Lady Tyrande Whisperwind." Her rank was truthful, but I didn't like the way her eyes darted to the ground when she gave her family name. Stormsinger. It wasn't one I had heard before, nor was there a reason for her to stutter the first syllable as 'sha' unless she'd been intending to use a different name. That left an important question: was Stormsinger her true name and she'd been prepared to give a pseudonym, or was it the other way around?

She was certainly becoming increasingly familiar. Her voice still had distinctive traces of the quel'dorei accent clinging to it. Quel'dorei accent. A bow bearing a quel'dorei crest. A possible pseudonym. The sadistic pleasure she took from threatening the satyr before her capture. That arrogant tilt to her head as she watched me for a reaction. Her slate-blue hair and the markings around her eyes. The way her face contorted in anger to look exactly like one displeased quel'dorei sorcerer who had damned Azeroth.

"Stormsinger?' I asked in the lightest tone I could manage. "Or Shadowveil?" My chest tightened in an unwelcome wave of emotion as she looked startled and taken aback before shame darkened her face and she hung her head. Her silence was all the answer I needed.


End file.
